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A Whole Hand?

Today is my anniversary.  Five years ago today, I declared before an entire church filled with friends and family, that I would love Taylor forever, come rain or come shine.

2006

Five years.

Not Ready

My mother-in-law, bless her heart :) has been good enough to order Taylor and me the "baby essentials" so that we're ready--whenever it happens--to take a baby, maybe a certain baby, home with us.  We have received a changing pad and cover, the crib we picked out, and the ever-essential car seat.

When the UPS guy buzzed our apartment and I came downstairs to sign for the package, he offered to carry the large car seat box up the stairs for me.  I thought a brief moment why--when they usually don't--they would offer this time.  Then it occurred to me.

"Oh! We're adopting." I said.  "So I'm not in any "fragile condition" or anything." I smiled and said I'd be fine carrying it up--"but thank you for offering. I appreciate it."

When I got the box upstairs and set it down in our apartment it hit me.  I'm in a very fragile condition right now.  We've already determined I have pregnancy brain, even though I'm not pregnant.  But emotionally, I'm all frazzled.  The uncertainty of the entire situation is certainly wearing on the nerves--not only  not knowing when, but even if this baby will be ours.  If she will ever sit in that car seat, or sleep in that crib, or look around at the pictures I have on my wall.

I sat there on the floor, in front of The Car Seat box and cried.  Just a little bit.  And not a despairing cry, or an anxious cry.  Perhaps I was just coming to terms with having to be prepared and accepting that we may never need the car seat.

I just don't feel ready.  Not that I'm not ready to be a mother--I've been "ready" [are you ever really "ready" to be a mother? it's always learn-as-you-go to some degree] for motherhood since the day I got married.  And it's not that I'm not ready for a baby tomorrow.  I guess I just don't feel ready to start receiving baby gifts like there's a due date a few months down the road where we'll pack up and go to the hospital to await the arrival of the baby we've known for nine months already.  It's different with adoption.  I've never been pregnant, but I know this much:  it's just different to be expecting to adopt.

Now don't get me wrong--I am truly thankful for the baby things we've received and my  mother-in-law is 100% right that we need to be prepared, and the sooner the better!  But it's difficult, still.

My sister graciously agreed to let us keep the baby things in an extra closet in her house.  She's got the space, and they're not far away, should we need them at a moment's notice.  But at least for now, they're out of sight.. not out of mind.  That Little Girl we met is never far from my thoughts, never far from my hopes to hold her and buckle her into that seat.

But out of sight helps a little, in the meantime.

Please

You know Taylor and I very much want children in our lives, and that we have started the adoption process.  We are nearly done with our home study and hope for a placement in the next few months.  It is an exciting and unusual time--expecting a child with no known due date...

But today, on the anniversary of Roe v. Wade, I need to say something.  I'd like to put this case in a slightly different light.  In 1994 at the National Prayer Breakfast in Washington, DC, Blessed Teresa of Calcutta sent this message to the United States:

Please don't kill the child. I want the child. Please give me the child. I am willing to accept any child who would be aborted and to give that child to a married couple who will love the child and be loved by the child. From our children's home in Calcutta alone, we have saved over 3000 children from abortion. These children have brought such love and joy to their adopting parents and have grown up so full of love and joy.

Her words mean so much to me.  About a year and a half ago, a woman I knew of through a dear friend was pregnant and briefly considered placing her baby for adoption.  My friend asked Taylor and me if we had thought about adoption--which was interesting, since we were, but hadn't "announced" it yet.  We prayed about it and we both came to the conclusion that we did, indeed, want to start the adoption process.  We told her that if this woman was thinking about abortion, we would--unconditionally and no-questions-asked--accept her child, if only she would maintain the pregnancy.

The day I called my friend to tell her our decision, she told me the woman was on her way down to the abortion clinic.  I was crushed.  It was a blow I wasn't expecting--to feel so acutely that I had lost a child whom I had never seen and only known about for a week.

I think the baby was a girl.  I have named her. Our first Little Saint.

Preoccupied

I've heard of "pregnancy brain."  If 95.8% of your friends were pregnant, you'd have heard of it, too.  And while I'm not pregnant, I've been totally distracted lately.  By lately, of course, I mean the past 6 weeks.  I can't get anything done in a reasonable amount of time.  Thank goodness for deadlines (like Christmas and airline schedules) or much would not have been accomplished at all.

Patrick McManus says that humans have a "worry box" in their brain and they can only hold so many items to worry or think about.  If one thing too many is added to the box, something else slips out.  My worry box is all full up.  Other Things don't even have a chance.

At least, my subconscious worry box is full up--I'm still able to think about Things like "when should I start dinner?" or "gosh, I really should empty the trash." or even "hm, maybe I should wake up so I can get to work on time."  But I have little space to worry about Christmas thank you cards (sorry folks, nothing personal!), sewing projects, or keeping the house tidy.

All I really want to do is putter around online (not unlike an attention-deficient squirrel on PCP) and ignore most of the things I have to do.

See, I can't stop thinking about her.  Her face.  Her hands.  Her birth parents.  The whole situation.

What's going to happen?  When will we know anything?  Why the delay?  Why now?  What do You want of us, Lord?  What should we do?

I know that my questions will be answered in time--in God's time, but my subconscious is overloaded in the meantime.  I walk into a room to get something or do something and the moment I get there, I forget what I needed.  I go to the computer to look something up.  I manage to check my email (no new messages in the last 10 minutes--why am I checking again?), catch up on twitter, comment a bit on facebook, and browse around Amazon.  But I don't look up what I needed.

Then, listlessly, I go sit on the couch, trying to remember what I was going to do when I hear the lid on the pot of water I was heating begin to spurt and bubble and I remember--I wanted to look up some baking ratio.  But now the water's too hot and I have to cool it down again.

Is this what it's like to be expecting?  I suppose at least, with pregnancy brain, the eventual holding-of-the-baby is a pretty for-sure thing.  Maybe that's what's driving me nuts.  I can't plan maternity leave; I can't set up the crib; I can't put the carseat in the car.  Why bother right now if we'll be waiting another 4 months?  What if this child never becomes available for adoption and we're back on the "waiting list" for however-long?  I work well with deadlines.  I rely on them.  But there's no deadline with adoption.  No date past which we induce.

There's only the waiting.

Don't misunderstand--I'm not feeling cynical and I'm not despairing.  These are just real concerns in adoption.  Real unknowns that I'm struggling with and learning about.  I can only hope that the expectancy of my subconscious translates, somehow, into prayer for this little girl and her families.  Scripture tells us the Holy Spirit hears the groaning of our hearts and knows our need more than we do.  My heart aches for This Little Girl.

She has so many people who love her already.  I hope she can come home, where ever her home will be, soon.

And forever.

Pause that Refreshes

A couple weeks back, pausing during Mass and looking ahead to a particularly busy week, I found myself distracted from the liturgy, thinking instead about the many and varied little things I had to accomplish before I would sit in that pew again.  It was going to be a very full week.

I thought, "If I can just make it through this week, next week will be easier. I'll just muddle through and then I can relax a bit."

I did muddle through the week, and I got (nearly) everything done I was supposed to finish.  But y'know what? The next week was almost as busy as the last one and I didn't get a chance to relax "unhindered" like I thought I would.  I felt a bit cheated. And quite exhausted. I had been so looking forward to a  rest later on that I missed opportunities to rest when I had them.  Does this happen to other people?  I sometimes feel like I'm the only person who (unrealistically optimistically) thinks busy-ness will subside occasionally and give me a break.  Perhaps I am.

...

On Parents

When I was in middle school, it was super-cool to call your friends' mothers "mom."  I did this with a few of my closest friends, but it never really caught on for me. Momma was mom to me, and calling another woman that didn't sit well.

And then I got married.  Momma instantly welcomed Taylor to the family with a warm hug and a big kiss and said to him: "And my name is? *pause* Mom," answering her own question. She wanted to be a mother to him in all the wonderful ways a mother-in-law can.  He was truly a son to her. In a different way, of course, than my brother was her son (he was always just "Son"), but not in a lesser way.  Not at all.

I didn't ask my parents-in-law what they wanted to be called after Taylor and I got married.  Most people I knew called their in-laws by their first name, but I felt compelled to call Taylor's parents mom and dad.  I don't know why.

T and I were visiting his folks' house soon after we were married and his dad asked me a question. I said, "Sure, Dad."  Since  I hadn't asked them if it was ok to call them mom and dad, I wasn't sure how he'd respond.  But he looked at me, tilting his head a little to the side, the way he always does when he pauses to consider something, and smiled at me and said, "I guess I am Dad to you now, huh?"  Soon after, I asked Mum if she minded at all that I called them mom and dad and she told me: "Oh not at all! I'm glad you feel close enough to us that you feel comfortable calling us that."  Me, too, Mum :)

And now, four years later, it's even better. They are Mum and Dad, through and through. They have been so good to me--I truly feel like their daughter and it is simply the natural thing to call them by who they are to me.

And Mum especially.  Mothers and daughters have a special relationship, and I am thankful for the blessing of my mother-in-law.  Since I first came into the family, she has offered her love and support, but especially so after Momma died.  In her own quiet, gentle way, she was there for me in so many ways.  She didn't try to step up to replace my mother at all, but she filled her roll as husband's-mother as perfectly as any woman could.  In all the little things she does for me--birthday and anniversary presents, calling me to catch up (y'know, because husbands get distracted and don't always share everything), emails, inviting me to take walks with her, cooking with me, sharing so many stories of motherhood and wifedom, even flying in with six kids to attend Momma's funeral--she has been a constant help and companion.

I love you, Mum :)

For Shame

In my (admittedly limited) adoption reading, I have frequently come across stories wrapped round in shame.

Allow me to qualify.  First, many of the stories I have read are older stories, sometimes decades old. Second, the sense of shame does not emanate from the adoptive families, the adoptees, or (really, deep down) the birth parents.  Rather, it seems to come from outside. From society. From (well-intentioned but mis-guided) agency workers. From parents or extended family or friends.

I get the feeling that, for years, the general mind-set has been to struggle through the adoption and then to forget that it happened.  Adoptive parents are seen as "rescuers" of their adopted children, as if they have stooped to raise the child. "Oh, that's so kind of you," friends say. [No kinder than biological parents "stooping" to raise their biological children. All parenthood is simply Love.] 

Adoptees who begin the search for their birth parents have been faced with closed case files which can't be opened. They aren't allowed to search for the knowledge of their own historicity. It has been deemed, by some authority, better for all involved if the information remains secret. And so, questions remain unanswered.  Stories and histories remain unshared.  This is not fair.

It's not fair for the birth parents either.  Lately there has been a rise in awareness of the grief women suffer after having an abortion. (For many years, the question that such grief could be present was overlooked and not investigated.) I believe the experience of a woman who gives birth and places her child(ren) for adoption is similar to grief after abortion.  Not that her loss is exactly the same as a woman who has lost a child through abortion, but the grief of these birth mothers is certainly present, and it has been overlooked. Forgotten. Neglected. For too long.

My impression has been that, after giving birth, these mothers are told, "it's over. forget about it. it's a mistake that you don't have to think about anymore."

A mistake.  I admit that her pregnancy may have been unplanned, but Life is never a mistake.  As a future adoptive mother myself, I cannot accept that the child I am meant to have through adoption is a mistake.

I don't want to turn this into a debate about the pros or cons of open adoption in all its many and varied forms.  But I will say, I am shocked that the shame surrounding the adoption process has persisted so long.  The pain an expectant mother feels when she decides (for whatever reason) that she will place her child for adoption should be an opportunity for her community to support her.  Especially in these days of legalized abortion, her choice for Life should be praised and commended.

The blessing that adoption exists, and that life can continue and thrive, should be a cause for joy, in spite of the grief.  The grief will not vanish if the shame is lifted.  But if the birth parents are allowed to grieve, if the child is allowed to know his history, if society can show true charity in the face of "mistakes" and embrace adoption whole-heartedly, the pain and sorrow will be lessened. It can be shared.

I am proud to be part of someone's adoption story. I am only at the beginning, and I have much still to learn, but I am excited and humbled that an expectant mother, somewhere, might choose me to be the mother of her child.  I want my child to know his birth parents, to know how much he is wanted and loved, from the first moment of his life.  I will gladly tell him the story of how he came into our family.  I will tell his friends and his friends' families.

There is no shame in the Love revealed in adoption. It's time "society in general" comes to grips with that.

Content

I bared my soul on our struggle with infertility.

And then one night, as I lay in the comfort of my husband's arms, waiting for sleep to overwhelm my senses, I listened to the quiet in our house.  I heard Taylor breathing peacefully, so close to my ear, quickly asleep after a long day of hard work.  I thought about our week and all that we accomplished.  I thought about our plans for adoption and the many children already in our lives.  I thought about the way we live our life now, and about our plans for shaping the future of our marriage and our family.

As I dozed off, I came to realize that I am most content.  As much as I long for certain things in my life and in our marriage, I am happy.  Incredibly happy.  And I am certain, deep down, that I'd never change a thing outside of God's plan for our lives.

It's true that we still have to prayerfully discern what God desires of us--what we must strive for and what we must pass by.  But for now, I am at peace waiting for the blessings God has in store for us.

Because after all, I have already been blessed infinitely with the Love of my sweet husband.  Any parent (and grandparent) will tell you that children leave the family eventually.  My parents did it. I have done it. My children will do it.  I don't mean to say that children are "lost" to their parents when they begin their own life, but every child grows up.  

Momma always told me your spouse if the only member of your family you ever get to choose ("so choose carefully," I hear her say in the back of my mind).  God placed him before me and I have chosen.  He is mine forever, to help me to heaven and to see God in all things.

And truthfully, what more can I ask for? 

...

[given the proximity of this to my last post, a small note of clarification: this is my best friend's family w/ her new baby] :) 

I Confess

I would be dishonest if I were to say that it has not been a struggle for us these past four years.  Anyone who knew Taylor and me before we got married knew that we wanted children right away.  We talked about it all the time. With anyone who would listen. We had dreams of being pregnant on the plane back from our honeymoon.  Every month we'd pray and hope that this would be it--the month we became parents. And so, we waited. And waited...

More than four years (or 53 months.. but who's counting?) and some four dozen babies (seriously) later, despite many evaluative tests and various remedies and strategies for conception, we still wait.

I have deliberately avoided discussing my struggle with infertility on this blog.  Not because I think you'd be unsympathetic, but because I didn't want it to become, for me, a forum for complaining.  I would be lying if I told you it hasn't been painful. But I would also be lying if I pretended we have not had our share of grace and blessing.  So many blessings..

---

St. Josemaria Escriva said:

"God in His providence has two ways of blessing marriages: one by giving them children; and the other, sometimes, because he loves them so much, by not giving them children.  I don't know which is the better blessing.  In any event, let one accept his own."

That was a hard thought for me: God is blessing our marriage by not giving us children.  Or at least, by not giving us children according to our plan and schedule.  I do hope to be a mother someday, but clearly my plans for immediate parenthood were not what God had in mind.

I've been thinking about St. Josemaria's words a lot, especially (you may have noticed) since it feels like everyone is getting pregnant lately.  There is a delicate balance between being thankful for one's own blessings and still pursuing the blessings we feel called to, like children; between looking around at my life and saying "I am so blessed" but still being able to look forward with hope and say "I do want children."

It's not enough only to look forward, because I could too easily forget about all the wonderfulness in my life right now.  But neither is it enough to merely "be content" with life as it is.  We are called to foster a sense of "not yet" in our plans.  What's in the future? How should we plan for it? What are we supposed to do to bring that future into the present?

Those questions have been difficult for me.  And I confess to feelings of bitterness when I read the ever-growing number of pregnancy announcements on facebook. I admit that I sometimes find it hard to look at swelling-belly pictures and the happy smile on the face of the parents.  I fight against envy when I see videos of cooing babes and exhausted-but-ecstatic parents holding their precious newborn.  Of course I am deeply (and truly) happy for them, but I can't help thinking "what about us?"

I even admit to selfish thoughts like, "well, they can't do all the things T and I can do, since they have kids."  But, inevitably, I say to myself, "but I know they don't care.. they'd never change a thing."  To be honest, we wouldn't change a thing either. Still, I have sometimes tried to convince myself that my life, sans bebe is better than life with kids, but that thought is empty.  Comparison is a deep, dark hole that will never bring fruit.

I won't tell you about the many blessings have in our marriage in this post, since the rest of this blog is an attempt at sharing those thousands.  But that is part of the difficulty.  To maintain true gratitude right alongside a deep, intense longing.  Part of the struggle is to reject those destructive, comparative thoughts and feelings of self-pity that tend to crop up at others' joyful news.  Part of the struggle is to sympathize with others who do not have the blessings I have, to bite my tongue and swallow my pride and not proclaim how blessed we are at just the wrong time...

I am no saint.  I can only speak from my experience and I have succumbed to these temptations many times.  But I do know that there is grace in abundance in such struggles.  "Let each accept his own" is St. Josemaria's advice.  Grant it, O Lord.

And we will keep waiting. But not without hope.

Friday Wanders

not all who wander are lost..

The past few Fridays have lent themselves to some quiet wandering time for my Love and me.  We usually have one or two errands in mind, but mostly we take time to spend time with each other.  And it's been lovely.

Sometimes we go visit cafes...

or beer shops..

And sometimes we just poke around the streets, stopping wherever we are fascinated.

It's a wonderful life we lead, that's certain :)

Happy wandering to you all!

Did You Know?

about my SuperAmazingWonderfullyAwesome Seester?  Well, let me tell you.

1. She graduated a year ago, despite Momma's death during midterms, but wasn't having luck finding a "grown up" job in Long Beach (ah, sunny CA), so... she: 
2. moved to Boston (cold, wet, rainy, freezing BostonInJanuary)--all the way across the country--to look for a job (no, she had no prospects/offers when she moved here)!  Amazing, no? But wait, there's more! 
3. Staying on T's and my futon couch for 5 months, she temped at various (tolerable and less-so) positions until she found one that fit.  And they gave it to her. Because she's awesome. 
4. Meanwhile, working full time, she did my dishes almost every night. What kind of roommate does that? Wonderful ones, I guess :) 
5. She wakes up on time every morning (I should know--sometimes her getting-ready wakes my lazy-sleeping-in-self up (a good thing, Viv, promise!)) and heads out to work, looking fabulous every day, and repeatedly wows her coworkers and employers (oh, and did I mention she brings home cake?!). 
6. She took Taylor and me out to dinner--her treat--to celebrate her "big person job" Tasty? ooh, yes. 
7. THEN, she found a room for rent and.. this weekend, we moved her out.  I felt not a little bit like a mother dropping her first baby off at her first day of Kindergarten.  I won't say I cried all the way home in the car, but if you asked me, I might just refuse to answer...  
8. She takes the bus to work every day--and really, buses are intimidating to people (like me) who grew up driving everywhere for lack of a bus system.  This week, she's getting the feel of a new bus route, to go with her new home. She just takes it all in stride. 
9. She goes shopping with me!  And picks out fun clothes for me to try on, and tells me if she likes them or not.  I've heard it said "that's just what girls do, Annie" but it's new for me. And tons of fun. And I love having my sister in town! 
10. She's facing the difficult task of getting to know new roommates and figure out her new living situation.  I only vaguely remember my first semester freshman year (probably because I blocked a lot of it out), new roommate, new situation, new classes, etc.  For Viv, it's a strange mix of having family in town, being comfortable at her job, being familiar with Boston, but now going "home" to practical strangers who don't know her and all her lovely quirks (yet).  It's easy to forget, after four years of a permanent roommate, what it's like to live with new people.  

It's hard starting out--again and again--on your own, and I am so proud of my younger sister.  She's always been such a strong, willful person, and has overcome many struggles in her relatively short life.  I have seen, and continue to expect, great things from her.

I will miss having her around the house, but I know it's a good thing that she's "out there" on her own, so to speak.  I'll miss her face, and her silly faces, and the way she makes us laugh. And I'll miss hearing her come in from work as I'm getting dinner ready.  Yes, I'll miss all those dishes I didn't have to clean, but I know we'll see her often.  It's just another step on the way together, adjusting to new growth and life.

The first reading at Momma's funeral Mass was about Judith.  I think it fits for Vivian Rose, too.  We love you!

When they met her, they all blessed her with one accord and said to her, ‘You are the glory of Jerusalem, you are the great boast of Israel, you are the great pride of our nation! You have done all this with your own hand; you have done great good to Israel, and God is well pleased with it. May the Almighty Lord bless you for ever!’ And all the people said, ‘Amen.’

Judith 15:9-10

You'll always make me smile, Sweetie :) 

Not all Tears are an Evil

The other night, Viv and I finished the Lord of the Rings.  It was her first time reading through the books; it was my fourth.  I always cry at the end, for joy in the goodness of the ending, and the healing and hope and happiness promised. As Gandalf says, "I will not say 'do not cry' for not all tears are an evil."

I am always tempted, once I place Return of the King back on the shelf, to immediately pull out The Fellowship of the Ring and begin again, "When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End..." Soon enough, I'm sure I will :)

But currently, I am pleasantly working my way through George MacDonald's Lilith, which is just as enchanting and gripping as the Lord of the Rings, but in a wholly different way.

"Do you mean, sir, I could have done something for the Little Ones by staying with them?"

"Could you teach them anything by leaving them?"

"No; but how could I teach them? I did not know how to begin. Besides, they were far ahead of me!"

"That is true. But you were not a rod to measure them with! Certainly, if they knew what you know, not to say what you might have known, they would be ahead of you--out of sight ahead! but you saw they were not growing--or growing so slowly that they had not yet developed the idea of growing! they were even afraid of growing!--You had never seen children remain children!"

"But surely I had no power to make them grow!"

"You might have removed some of the hindrances to their growing!"

"What are they? I do not know them. I did think perhaps it was the want of water!"

"Of course it is! they have none to cry with!"

"I would gladly have kept them from requiring any for that purpose!"

"No doubt you would--the aim of all stupid philanthropists! Why, Mr. Vane, but for the weeping in it, your world would never have become worth saving!"

An interesting idea.  Our world (the world of Mr. Vane) is only worth saving because of the weeping.  It is not only suffering, of course, that brings on tears. Great Joy overflows in water courses too.  But the notion of growing only through tears--through the life-giving torrent of Living Water--isn't one that surfaces much lately.  Though all living things need water to grow.

Viv and I were talking about that a week or so ago--the notion of suffering.  She rightly noted that not many people see any value in it.  What's the point?  When we have so many ways of averting suffering, why bother with it?  She also said that her faith has helped her deal with the sorrow in her life--if there is a purpose, if there can be good in it, one can fight through and see the light on the other side.

And, there are the tears.  I think the 'progressive idea' (which is so prevalent these days) that suffering is unnecessary or unbearable or pointless is, in fact, a crafty lie perpetuated by satan himself.  The infinite value in suffering, in this world, is a mystery to me.  But my experience and my faith have taught me that the ability to suffer is truly a gift, and it does make me stronger, if I have the courage to face it with a stout heart.  Even a trembling heart with willing spirit can garner Grace from sorrow.  If we do not cry, for joy or sorrow, how can we grow?

In this fallen world of ours, I know there will be no lack of tears.  But I am with MacDonald, and I believe tears--of any sort--make us grow.  I cannot say if it was always that way--maybe God created us only for tears of joy--and suffering and sorrow as causes entered only after our fall.  Or, perhaps the Gift of Tears is one of the many graces God has given us to endure the brokenness of this life.

Will we still cry for joy in heaven? Or will we find we have a new way to share the churning emotions in our body, and crying will have been only a thing of this world?

Personally, I'm inclined to believe the first.  We have always had tears.  And they will always help us grow, if we can accept the Grace therein.

Four

Is it silly to think that each anniversary is the best ever?  Do they keep getting better forever? Or is there an asymptotic feature to them, where they sort of level out after a while?

That doesn't matter to me, of course, because the mere fact that I have an anniversary is enough.  If I can spend it with my Love, in any state of happiness, this is bliss.

This year (like everyone, being strapped for cash), we planned a picnic.  There aren't enough picnics in the world these days. If there were, there would be more need for grass, and (I think) people would be happier. And if everyone was sitting on a picnic blanket their mother made them as an engagement present, that would help, too.  Also, while we're at it, if everyone was eating the ever-so-tasty prosciutto and salami that T and I got as a treat for the occasion, life really would be like a bowl of cherries. Or, rather, blackberries :)

We added to our lunch cool, crisp Asian pears, and herbed goat cheese, and fresh crust-y bread, finished off by chilled maté tea, all the while sheltered and surrounded by hundreds of trees, boughs waving high above in the wind, making soft music to accompany our simple meal.

We drove out to the Arnold Arboretum, since it's a great oasis in the midst of city-congestion--the perfect place for a picnic.  We did notice that the sign said "NO PICNICS"  ...but we figured they probably meant those picnics that include red plastic cups, loud music, lots of trash, and less-than-great bbq food. So, naturally, we just wandered around the arboretum until we found a nice secluded spot, out of sight of most of the paths, and cozily nestled ourselves in a grove of pine trees in the sunshine.

This anniversary was particularly reminiscent of our honeymoon, for several reasons.  It was a peaceful day, and we had the whole afternoon for leisure (despite the impending doom of finals and trips coming up and work schedules, etc).  We made a point to get very good food for our picnic since it was really only a small lunch, and we were going to have a nice dinner at home, too. So the prosciutto was quite fine, the berries and pears were perfectly ripe, the cheese creamy and the bread fresh and crusty. If we closed our eyes, we could imagine ourselves sitting on a bench in the tree-lined walk in front of the Galleria Borghese north of Rome, with the wind in the trees and fresh air in our lungs.

It was lovely

When we had finished eating, we cleaned up our picnic blanket (leaving only some well-loved grass and a few bread crumbs for the birds) and walked around the arboretum.

Before we left for the picnic, we'd opened our presents.  Andrew and Renee bought us this lovely teapot (we used it while I was making dinner--so good! and a stunning addition to any table).

And have you noticed anything different about my pictures?  My Daddy contributed to my "new camera fund" for our anniversary (I now have this one, used, from a good friend), and T's family gave us a new lens with a few memory cards (always helps to be able to take more pictures!).  [I know that a camera is mostly "my" present, but Taylor doesn't mind. He's just awesome like that.]  As we walked around the arboretum after eating, I had loads of fun flitting from tree to tree, taking pictures and enjoying my new lens--with it's awesome depth-of-field capabilities :)

The sun began to wester more, and we headed home so I could put the chicken to roast in the oven with spuds and herbs.  It was a tasty meal, to be sure :) rounded out by a very nice wine T chose. We got to share our fourth anniversary dinner with our Maid of Honor, my Seester Viv, and it was awesome. Just plain awesome. She liked the dessert we made, too ;) (Which dessert we ate on the new plates, also from T's family for our anniversary! One can never (ever) have too many dessert plates!)

And then T and V cleaned up the kitchen for me :) Who could ask for anything more? four blissful years of marriage, surrounded by people who love you, and a sparkly, clean kitchen. Not I. 

Quotidian

It's that time of year.  "Spring cleaning" peeps its head out in the back of our minds, emerging from the cozy winter soil, as memory recalls warm sunny days in sun dresses.

I never liked cleaning when I was growing up.  I didn't really like cleaning when I was in college, either.  It was just a chore, something I had to do in order to get to do other things I wanted.  It wasn't until I got married, and had my "own" house to take care of, that I began to appreciate the virtue in good, honest housework.

I recently read an article in Body + Soul magazine (eh, I got a free subscription with some tea I bought online) all about a "fresh look" on spring cleaning.  [Unfortunately, I can't seem to link to it, so you will have to bear with my paraphrasing and re-hashing of the article.]  "The idea," the author states, "is that we should find meaning in ordinary tasks, because true clarity is fleeting enough--and when it's over, somebody still has to clean the crisper."  Ahh, doesn't that ring true with so many things I've learned over the years?

Momma used to tell me, when I emerged from some chore I had finished: "That didn't take long enough. You didn't do it right."  I was always quite appalled and indignant (especially when I had done [almost] everything she asked me to do), because "how would she know?" But, looking back, I realize that she was getting at the same idea as the article.  So much these days says "do it once, never do it again."  With many things it is possible to finish completely the first time, but not with most things in life.  Folded laundry will be worn and need to be washed. Clean dishes will be dirtied. Swept floors will be "dusted." Over and over again.  If repetition is weariness without end, life is exhausting (and if so, frankly, why bother?).  Instead, focus on the now, not on the "when it's finished."

So what's my point?  As a housewife, a philosopher's wife :) I know it's important to have a clean and happy home--one that welcomes not only guests and strangers, but also its more permanent residents.   [I'm not saying your home has to be spotless--taking care to make a "good, clean home" is different than a catalog-perfect "living" space.]  When one comes into a real home, it's apparent in the walls and the floors and the air. A Home is full of Love.

Because, folks, physical things have meaning!  It's not enough to tell your children you love them and pray for them (though those are infinitely important), you have to work out your love--in dirty diapers and banana-crusted floors and mud-stained clothes and temper tantrums (hopefully the kids').  It's not enough to get married and be madly in love with your spouse. Work out your unending Love for him in the unending pile of dishes that accumulate, or the unending cycles of laundry.

It's in such repetition that we, as humans, exist. Breathing and waking up and going to sleep are all repetitive. Seeing the sun rise and set each day is repetitive. Hearing your child(ren) laugh (again and again (at the same thing)) is repetitive. Why don't those things weary us?  In housework, too, we can find joy in the repetition.  In going back to the sink, for the third time today, I can find a moment's peace in the warm sudsy water, in the lemon scent of my soap, in the knowledge that we have enough food.  Make it a meditation. Pay attention to what you're doing.

See, housework and all those blissfully quotidian, repetitive tasks, are a kind of therapy, really. A perfect meditation. Doing the dishes is calming and relaxing for me (mostly--sometimes I'm just tired).  It's something I do on my own, so it gives me a window of time where I can think to myself.  Folding laundry is the same way. Repetitive, soothing, consistent.  I fold everyone of Taylor's t-shirts the same way.  I sort the socks and match them up.  I re-organize our sweater cubby so they don't fall out.  I put the clothes away and admire a clean room, all put together.

We should all revel in a little repetition--it's good for us :)

Rich Memories

Memories are rich. The last week has been especially rich with memory for my family.  One week ago, Taylor and Viv and I celebrated the anniversary of Momma's death.  We had a nice Tea Party "Brinner" (that's Breakfast for Dinner) of scrambled eggs, bacon wrapped sausages (baked in brown sugar and maple syrup), potatoes O'Brien, and guacamole.  For "dessert" we had the Bass Cottage Inn's oat scones, which were delicious, and bacon shortbread cookies, which were also delicious, and tea.

It really was a fitting celebration.  I knew Momma was there with us--her first tea party at my house in Boston :)

Each of us went in turns telling one memory we had of Momma, which, of course, led to other memories and stories and jokes.  At the end of the evening, we said a prayer of Thanks for Momma's life, and that we were able to know her and Love her.

Then yesterday, the anniversary of her funeral--St. Patrick's Day--we had a traditional Irish boiled dinner.  My first ever.  We has corned beef brisket, potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and cabbage.  I even grated a little Dubliner Irish cheddar cheese to top things off, but the flavors were all so beautifully simple that not much garnish was needed.  I'm happy to report that it went well.  We had four people over, bringing the total eaters to seven--the number in my family.  We had a jolly evening.

St. Patty's Feast

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And so, we go on and on.  A year has past. Before we know it, it will be two years, then five.  But we won't forget.  And we look forward, with great hope, to the day when we can all enjoy a Sunday High Tea as a whole family once again.  And it will be Beatific.

A Homily for Momma

Fr. Paul, the priest at my home parish, only knew Momma for a few months before she died.  But in his homily for her funeral, I feel that he knew her through and through.  Perhaps it was his grace as a priest. Perhaps it was her "transparency" among friends and those she trusted.  Either way, his words were from his heart, and they spoke to ours.  Here is the text, if you want to read it.

[First Reading: Judith 15:8-10
Second Reading: 2 Cor 5:1-10
Gospel: Matt 5:13-14]

As I was meditating on these readings, I said to myself, "How beautiful these words speak of Jeanette, herself." I said to myself, "The life of Jeanette was so faith filled that she lived her life in the presence of all of us."

But as I reflect on the words today, the words of scripture -- that had been chosen by Jeanette and her family for this Mass -- speak about her. And if Jeanette was here she would promptly tell us, "Yes! But, God comes first!" She would like to hear the words of God, for it was the heart of her life.

And as we listen to the first reading, we hear of a very beautiful lady, one that was still with the spirit of God. And she wanted not the praise of the people, but that her life should be dedicated to the service of God. And in giving service to God she obtained great joy, peace, and happiness. So much so, like King David, she danced for the Lord. And as I thought about this, I said to myself, "Yes, Jeanette, go ahead and dance for our God. You did everything for God and rightly so. Just like Judith, you go ahead and dance. Dance for Him that we here can only imagine the great Love, the Joy, and Happiness you have the pleasure of doing before our God.

Then in the second reading of today, from St. Paul's letter to the Corinthians, it speaks of our human body as a dwelling tent, something that has been given to us to use so that we may glorify God through the Son. And it's not meant for us to live an endless life here on this Earth. St. Paul is telling us that, so that we may use it to serve God, so that we too may achieve eternal happiness. None of us would love to stay on forever in this life because we were all promised the Goodness and the Greatness of our Heavenly Kingdom. So much so, that if we only realize how beautiful this existence with God is, I'm sure we would ask the Lord to take us home Today.

As I was sitting with Jeanette one morning, she was by herself, and as we sat and she shared with me, she said, "Father, I am tired. I want to go Home." And I said to her, "Jeanette, God is waiting. He has given you the time, the time to prepare yourself, so that when the hour comes, you can surrender your life to the Lord, just like Christ did on the cross. You carry this cross in your body for your salvation and the salvation of your Loved Ones. When the time comes it will be like the transfiguration, when Jesus was transformed into the beauty of His eternal existence." And as we watched the transfiguration through the story, then we understand how beautiful that Life will be. And we know that when the hour comes we will be like stepping out of this body and into the glorified body prepared for us by God, Himself.

And in today's Gospel reading, Jesus speaks about the Salt. He says, "You are the salt of the Earth." Continue to be salt of the Earth. Use your salt to enhance the taste of salt and your light, not to hide it, but to display it in the quality of life and the relationship that you shared with God. The greater our relationship with God, the better the quality of salt and light we demonstrate through our lives. Yes, Jeanette was the salt of the earth. She salted the lives of all those people she touched through her work at St. Ann’s, through the RCIA, the CCD, and all the other programs. Jeanette allowed the light to shine forth in her life. And this light came through her prayer life. Jeanette was a woman of great prayer.

As we were sharing that morning, she said to me, "Father, I love my family." And I said, "Love is a gift from God. If you love your family it shows your deep love for God." She said, "But Father, I am tired. But, since Richard wants to go to the Congress, I will go with him." And she built up that courage and strength to make sure it became a reality in their lives. And not only that, she spoke very lovingly of her children. She was so proud of all of them and she was looking forward to the day of her two grand children's Baptism, which would have taken place in May. She said, "Father, I am looking forward to that. That will be my last Joy." But God said, "No. Come home to Me. I need you."

And as I went to anoint her on the evening that she passed away, she said to me, "Father, I'm finding it so hard to pray," and I said to her, "Jeanette, let your soul pray. God hears the prayer of your soul. You don't have to use words. He knows what you are trying to say to Him. Surrender yourself to Him and allow Him to take you where He wants."

Jeanette, we thank God for the gift of you. We take from you the many good lessons that you teach us about God and we pray that you will pray for us that we may become the Salt of the Earth and the Light of the world, just like you showed us.

May you rest in peace.

My Story

About a week and a half before Momma died, I went to the CCD congress in Anaheim, CA with her and Daddy, and we met up with Viv for dinner and a few classes.  It was a great weekend. Momma was so weak by then, and jaundiced from liver failure, that she was in a wheelchair.  My job, in coming to congress, was to push her around for the weekend.

She was a trooper. She was cheerful and loving and really seemed to be enjoying herself, despite her exhaustion.  I wheeled her around to each of her classes, and she listened attentively and we discussed them together. I pushed her through the "den of booths" where she bought several gifts for people, including a congress t-shirt for Daddy (he gets one every year) and a long-sleeve shirt for me (it's one of my favorites now, actually).

I brought along The Fellowship of the Ring so that I could start reading it aloud to her and Daddy.  I thought they would enjoy it and it was such an important story to me that I really wanted to share it with them.  I intended to record the rest of the story for them and email them the files so at least Momma could listen to them while she was resting at home (she had stopped teaching in January due to a bad case of pneumonia).  Together that weekend, we made it through the Old Forest and right up to the threshold of Tom Bombadil's house "and a golden light was all about them."  Fitting.

I remember massaging her feet and calves, because they would go to sleep in the wheelchair. They were always cold, too, so she wore down-filled "tent booties" all the time.  I wanted to touch her as much as possible--y'know how great it feels when someone rubs your shoulders or your hands? all those endorphins? I wanted to send those little feel-good healers all through her body.  But I knew it wouldn't work.  She had told me a few months before that she didn't get those "shivers" of endorphins anymore. Maybe her nervous system had been affected too greatly by the cancer, but she said she just didn't get those feel-good ripples anymore.  That was perhaps the saddest thing for me that weekend.  We are such physical beings that it hurt me, physically (made me want to cry) to know that my touch didn't "work" on her body anymore.  I knew that she was thankful and appreciative that I was rubbing her and hugging her, that emotionally it was supportive, but it was hard to accept that the lack of connection between the physical and spiritual was the beginning of the end...

I remember so much from that weekend, the food we ate, the restaurants we visited, people we met. I remember how the wheelchair would vibrate if I pushed it too quickly along the sidewalks.  I remember sitting in the sunshine with my sister and parents, eating a brought-from-home lunch together.  My skin was hot in the sunlight. I took a picture of a little girl pushing her dolly in a play-stroller.  I asked Momma and Daddy to pose for a picture. The last one I have of them together. You have seen it before--I use it often. I am always struck by how Momma's jaundice was lessened in the sunlight, and how Daddy looks a little more pink than "normal" next to Momma.

Sunday that weekend we packed up our things at the hotel and loaded it all up in the car.  We were in my grandmother's Blue Van. She had been in a wheelchair for the last several years of her life and she picked that  van because it had a big space in the back for the chair, without having to collapse it.  Strange that Momma, who inherited the van, now found its original functionality so useful.

We stayed at Vivian's apartment that night.  She was on the second floor of a building with no elevator, so Momma had to climb the stairs.  Daddy asked her "how are you going to get up to Viv's apartment?" and she said, frankly, "I'm going to go up once and come down once and that's all."  It was hard for her--it took all three of us supporting her as she labored up each step, clutching the railing of the stairs. I think I slept on the couch that night and Viv slept in her roommate's bed.

In the morning, Momma and Daddy had to pick up Uncle Greg (Momma's brother) at the airport.  Momma climbed down the stairs again, two of us in front of her to lean on and one behind her for support, and walked the 15 or so feet to the van.  She was so weak, so tired. I hugged her goodbye, without bursting into tears, and Viv and I helped her up into the front seat of the van.  She blessed us and told us she loved us.  That was the last time I saw her alive.

I spent the rest of the day hanging out with Viv, visiting some of her "haunts" in the area :)  I flew back to Boston on the red-eye and had a busy busy week and weekend, with family visiting and house guests and work schedules and crochet class and an under-the-weather husband.

----

After Christmas, I had told Momma and Daddy I could take time off work to be in CA and help out (thank Heaven for employee benefits).  On Wednesday the week after I returned from Congress (after our last house guest had left), I got a call from Daddy in the afternoon.  In a very calm, but very sober voice, he asked me to come and stay for an indefinite period of time because Momma had taken a turn for the worse.  I could hear the emotion and tears catch in his throat as he continued, "She doesn't have much time."  I told him I'd come soon and Taylor and I booked tickets for Saturday, intending to finish the week at work and settle things with them about my leave. I went to my crochet class that evening, still thinking I had time...

Later in the evening, my sister Bethany called me, also choked up. She told me, "I don't know if Mom's gonna make it till Saturday. You've got to get here sooner."  Panic set in. But at that point in the evening, the next available flight to CA was early the next morning.  We had to wait.

So we packed our bags and I wrote a letter to my employers letting them know I was taking a month of family-related medical leave--I didn't care what they said. I'd sort it out later. I was going to CA.  We went to bed at 11, thinking we should at least be rested for the next day, since there was nothing else to do but pray.

Sometime around 1am my phone rang. It was my brother; he was crying.  It's always hard to bear when men cry, I don't know why that is. He said, "Mom died a little while ago." and he told me that he got to see her, just in time. She was conscious and lucid and recognized him when he came in the room.  Then Summer got on the phone and told me Daddy was still in the room with her, stroking her arm. She was crying, and she said she had to go take Giulia in to say goodbye to Grandmama.  They told me they loved me. I told them I loved them too and said something like "I'll see you tomorrow."

I hung up the phone and woke Taylor up. We cried together, hard and loud. Even then, in that moment, as we held each other in bed, I could feel Momma there with us.  I knew she was there. Right before my brother called, I was dreaming.  I dreamed about Momma's last moments. She was lying in bed with all her children around her and giving last bits of advice (or prophecy).

We sent emails to our closest friends and family, letting them know Momma had died, and we went back to bed.  A few hours later we woke to our alarms and piled our bags into the taxi, went to the airport, spent 6 dry (both in humidity and in tears) hours on the plane, picked up our rental car, got In-n-Out (well, Momma would have wanted us to, and we were hungry!), and drove the three hours up to Inyokern.

Hospice had removed Momma's body by the time we got there, in the afternoon.  We were the last to arrive. Daddy took Taylor and me and sat down between us on Momma's inherited (from her mother) antique couch and told us about the Valentine's day poems they had written each other, about her last moments.  We cried some more.

Madeleine Peyroux, one of my favorite vocalists, sings a song called Prayer.
This is what I imagine Momma's last thoughts were like...
Lord, I must be strong now
I don't belong now
In this world anymore

I'll say a final prayer for
Those I care for
Who've kept my company

My destiny is clear
I'm dying to have you near
To me

Lord
I don't belong now 
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

I'm prepared to go
Divide my body and soul
Won't you

Lord
I won't be long now
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

Have mercy, Lord
I'm told it's paradise
To have and to hold

Lord
I must be strong now
I don't belong now
In this world anymore

Lord
I won't be long now
If you are waiting
I am not afraid to die

We had arrived. We were there in the house without Momma, but she was still there.  We were face to face with her death, which we had been anticipating for months, but never expecting.  A year ago today, as I sat on that couch with Daddy between Taylor and me, quiet grief set in. The rush to make it home was gone. The busy-ness in Boston had been left behind. Hurry vanished. There was only "after" left. And all there is to do with after is let it linger a while, keeping company amidst the tears.  

Today, it seems to me, the after has departed, as gently as it came: like a mist in the trees that settles in the night and is burned away by the bright morning Sun.  There are still tears of course, dripping from the dew-laden boughs of memory.  Mist still lingers in damp depressions under trees. But the Sun is definitely shining. It's a brand new day.